by C. McGee
“But,” she said in conclusion, “I really don’t think there was one particular moment that changed things for me. It was just time. Time changed my perspective.”
“Interesting,” I replied, and meant it.
Equally interesting was the composed manner in which Mom informed me of the demolition of our family homestead. She was sad, of course, but not distraught or angry. She made it clear that the old place would be remembered fondly but that its loss would not be dwelled upon. Then she segued into a new topic, leaving no opening for me to inquire further. Of course, I wanted to discuss the topic more, force her to address it in a thorough fashion, but I didn’t because it was clear that I shouldn’t. There was no reason for me to go picking at scabs.
After dinner we checked into a hotel where, suffering from the effects of jet lag and time change, my mom immediately fell asleep. After a few hours of premium cable consumption—prison TV sucks farts—I followed suit. The next morning we woke up, ate a calorie-laden breakfast at Zippy’s, and then headed to the airport to catch our flight to Kauai. Mom was excited to see my house and even more excited to see Ethan, whom she had met and grew fond of during my trial. Despite the difficult circumstances and short timeframe, Ethan had managed to charm the pants off my entire family. They loved him instantly, and, in an uncharacteristic bout of candor, they informed me that they loved him instantly. It caught me completely by surprise. It also made me appreciate just how much I cared for him. Sure, the cynical part of me played with the idea that my increased besottedness was a product of self-preservation—being a felon and all, my hot commodity status had disappeared—but objectively I don’t think that’s the case. Ethan really is my person. Of that, I’m confident.
Once we got on the plane and settled into our shitty seats—D boarding group, come on Mom, figure out how to check in online—I began catching my mom up on the various people that she had come to know as a result of the trial. Since it’s only a twenty-minute flight from Oahu to Kauai I decided to give her the bullet points. They went as follows:
• Tiny died. I knew he had but the medical examiner confirmed it. His casket was the size of a refrigerator box.
• Yukio took a plea bargain. He never went to prison. Shit, he was hardly punished at all. House arrest? Please. He lives in a mansion. Most people would kill to have a three-month-long stay-cation like that. The audio of him alluding to organized crime connections just wasn’t enough, not with his slither of lawyers (nice collective noun, right?). On the plus side, public pressure killed his resort project.
• Lana had to have massive surgery. It turned out the round that was accidentally fired off during the tussle between Tiny and Charlie went right through her hand—and not in the way you would expect either. The bullet didn’t pierce her palm like Jesus on the cross; it went through the width of her hand, pointer knuckle to pinkie knuckle, like she was throwing a karate chop at the barrel of the gun. Gross. Fortunately, the reconstructive surgery went well and it looks like, with diligent rehab, her hand will recover. As for her involvement with the shady resort deal, neither the state nor the federal government filed charges. That was a positive for her as well as Ethan and I. Regarding Charlie, she was pissed but not livid.
• Ethan avoided all reprimand. He wasn’t even questioned in a serious way. But to be fair, he was completely unaware of my mongooses and Yukio’s unsavory business practices, so his treatment was probably appropriate. His ridiculously cavalier approach to life saved him, kept him in the dark, oblivious to the murky complexities that surrounded him. That said, he didn’t escape completely unscathed. Charlie’s deceit saddened and angered him. A shadow now looms in the background of his mind, cognizance of his own Pollyannaish inclinations temper his cheer. He jokes in the same way but not with the same smile.
• Charlie, well, who the fuck knows. That asshole disappeared after everything went down. I thought I might learn some stuff about him at Yukio’s trial, but Yukio’s case never went to trial so Charlie never had to testify. I suspect he was FBI, but I can’t say for sure. I also suspect that Yukio was his primary target and that he was trying to get to him through Lana. If that conclusion is correct, then Tiny really fucked everything up. His appearance and his behavior forced Charlie’s hand. Tiny was the most wanted man in the state, which meant Charlie had to inform the authorities about his presence despite the fact that doing so compromised his primary objective. So, ironically enough, Tiny helped Yukio get off. Had Charlie been given a bit longer to investigate I’m certain he would have brought that old sleazy bastard down. If that had happened, I still would have been pissed at him for using Lana, Ethan, and myself, but perhaps slightly less pissed. Actually, no. Scratch that. I still would have been really pissed because, in addition to the whole Yukio business, I also suspect that Charlie was the one that tried to bust me for smuggling mongooses. The evidence clearly bears this out. He easily could have informed the police about my maneuvers without risking his own mission, he was at the library when I was researching smuggling, he opened the drawer that contained my Operation Flush a Turd checklist, he had numerous opportunities to snoop around my house, he knew I was taking a big kayak trip, he heard Lana and I discuss the pet shop that illegally imported animals—Christ, it was basically spelled out for him. He’s the reason that shit-cherry was waiting for me at the beach and the reason that sassy gay-sian pet store owner is in jail. Goddamn, that devious scrote badger. If I ever see him again, I’m punching him right in the testes.
• Koa got charged with harboring a fugitive, as well as aiding and abetting. The former charge was legitimate; the latter was bullshit. Tiny’s crimes were reactionary not premeditated. and Koa wasn’t near him when he committed them, so there is no way that Koa could have “aided and abetted” anything. But the DA didn’t let that sort of logical thought get in her way. Facing draconian charges, Koa ended up taking a plea. He got sentenced to eighteen months. He will serve a year, max. It was a wise decision on his part. Had he gone to trial, he probably would have gotten five. Nevertheless, I was slightly taken aback when I learned that he had agreed to the deal. I expected him to go to court, to use the trial as a platform to voice his beliefs. I did not expect him to quietly acquiesce. I’m still not sure why he did. At first, I thought he had resigned himself to defeat, but that is no longer the case. That is not the impression I get from our correspondence. The e-mails that he sends me do not sound like a man that has given up, they sound like a man who has grown up. They sound like a man that is addressing reality, a man that wants to make the best out of the inevitable. This transition has infused me with confidence in Koa. He’s going to do great things when he gets out. I’m sure of it.
My mom spent the bulk of the flight listening, enthralled by the updates and insights I was sharing. Save some excited “oh’s” and a couple of thoughtful “um’s” she remained quiet. The lone exception came when I was discussing Charlie.
“I wonder why he didn’t try to get you for harboring a fugitive?” she mused. “Ya know, he just seems so severe, I thought he would have tried. Thank goodness he decided to be nice.”
“Yeah,” I responded, considering this for the first time. “Maybe he is a little bit human.”
Ethan was waiting for us by the baggage claim. He squeezed me tight, lifted me up off the ground, and delivered a barrage of kisses all over my face. It was cute. After he set me down, he gave my mom a warm hug, grabbed my luggage off the carousel, and then walked us out to the car.
Driving north out of Lihue, we discussed Biggie Smalls’ weight gain, and the various touristy activities that we should have my mom try—zip-lining was a yes, surfing was a no. When we got to Kapa’a we stopped for some shave ice. My mom ordered three flavors and added condensed milk and adzuki beans, which blew me away—I was expecting her to go with plain cherry. We ate our shave ice on the beach, underneath the cheerful sun, and then got back in the car and commenced our drive north. We made our way past Anahola, past Princeville, down
the mountain, and over the one-lane bridge into Hanalei. As we entered town, I spotted a handful of people holding protest signs.
“What’s that all about?” my mom asked.
Ethan looked at me with an apologetic expression. I didn’t know if he was sorry that he had not told me or sorry that it had happened. It didn’t matter either way. It was not his fault that there was a new resort being built.
“I’ve seen the sketches,” Ethan said, after a couple seconds’ pause. “It’s not as nice as the one Yukio was going to build.”
Wearing a slight frown, I shook my head, acknowledging that I had heard.
“Hold on, so what’s going on now?” My mom said, repeating her inquiry, staring at the protestors through the passenger-side window.
Ethan explained about the resort and the HLF as we drove by the demonstration at a sluggardly pace. Not all of the information was new to my mom. She had a cursory knowledge of the island’s controversial development as well as its various independence movements, but only insofar as they related to my case. We had never discussed these topics in their own right, and she had never witnessed them firsthand. I was interested to see her reaction.
“Well,” she said. “I mean I get it, but don’t ya think it’s kinda silly. Picket signs aren’t gonna stop the river from flooding. You’re better off stacking sandbags.”
I raised my brow, opened my eyes wider, lowered the corners of my mouth, and nodded my head. Looking over at Ethan, I saw that he was reacting with the same expression. “Well … yeah,” our faces said. “That’s an interesting and fair point.”
My mom didn’t seem to notice the impact of her words. Rather than allowing their profundity to sink in, she transitioned to a new topic without a second thought. “Oh, is that a Hawaiian barbecue place?” She asked excitedly. “We gotta go there while I’m here. I still haven’t tried it.”
“Uh, yeah” I replied, still taken aback by my mom’s cavalier treatment of her own insight.
“Great, that’ll be fun,” she smiled.
The traffic opened up and Ethan accelerated. My mom continued to talk about food as we made our way down the road. I listened enough to respond, but not enough to respond meaningfully. My mind was still preoccupied with the whole picket-flood-sandbag comment. I didn’t care about dining choices.
Picking up on my disinterest, Ethan stepped in as a proxy, holding up my end of the conversation with my mom, allowing me to retreat fully into my own thoughts. I stayed there for a minute or so. Then an abrupt stop snapped me back into the present.
We were less than a quarter mile from my house when Ethan brought the car to a screeching halt. Startled, I threw out a couple of choice expletives and then lifted my gaze toward the road, searching for the cause of our breakneck deceleration. There in the middle of the street stood two mongooses, up on their hind legs, surveying their surroundings, orange spray paint conspicuous upon their torsos. For a dramatic second they stared up at me and I back down at them. Then, without fuss, the lithe predators returned to a four-legged stance and scurried off into the brush.
“Were those mongooses?” Mom asked.
“Yup,” I replied.
“They looked a little worse for the wear.”
“Yeah, kayak trips, shark fights, and open ocean swims tend to have that effect.”
“What’s that now?”
“Nothing.”
Acknowledgments
A bulleted list seems lazy but appropriate. Thank you, thank you, thank you, to the following people/places:
• Beth
• Jess
• Daddy Doug
• The Kuskos
• Friends
• Rochester
• Fargo
• Kauai
A Note to the Reader
Thanks for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, then please visit as many review websites as possible and shower it with praise. If you disliked it, then go ahead and tell people you liked it anyway, pretty please, I mean come on I’m a poor novelist. More of my writing can be found at cmcgeewrite.com, borderlineatbest.com, and thedangeratlas.com. My previous novel Exteriors and Interiors is also available from Roundfire Books.
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